Without You
by AMillionMilesAway612
Summary: Dealing with death is hard. Dealing with suicide is even worse. But for Clare Edwards, she doesn't deal at all. Unfortunately, her sister's suicide seems to stick in her mind every moment of every day. But how long can a screaming matter stay silent for?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello readers! And if you read my last story, welcome back! So yeah, I got my new story up pretty fast. Proud of me? Considering how suckish I can be at updating. Before I forget, a few main points you should understand before reading:**

**-Darcy and Clare are only 2 years apart**

**-Julia did not happen**

**-K.C. and Jenna thing did not happen**

**I might add a few more of those in, but right now that's all that came to mind. This story will not be AS heart-wrenching as my old one, although it will have it's depressing parts. Please, feel free to give me any constructive criticism you feel necessary; I always love it. And as for my old readers, I love you once again, and here's a million dollars! In my head, of course.**

**Dislclaimer (yuck)- I do not own Degrassi. Or Clare. Or Eli. Well I do own Eli, but only in my dreams**

Everyone stares.

I guess I can't blame them, really. Staring is a natural instinct when something you've heard about constantly, but never actually seen, finally comes within view.

But it's the way they look at me that's so unsettling. As though something about me is supposed to be different. Are my footsteps any shorter? Is my hair done differently? My features are shifted into new ways of perceiving, as if my physical aspects are meant to change just as much as my inside.

I try to ignore the constant double takes to the back of my head. Just keep walking. The narrow hallway that seems like it will go on forever must have an end. Somewhere where I can take a moment to stop and think, "I made it."

Somewhere where people won't be watching my every move.

Jenna Middleton darts her eyes away from me the moment I glance over at her. She nonchalantly brushes her hair forward to hide her face, letting me know that the little amount of friendship we once had is gone.

Like I actually care. No one in this school, no one in this boring town, will ever be worth anything.

The people who are just happen to be the ones we lose.

The first day of school is, as usual, filled with chaos. The continuous back and forth motions of confused freshmen who don't know if room C202 is to the left or right of B105, melodramatic sophomores, who unfortunately share the same classes as me, embracing each other as if they didn't talk on Oovoo for over three hours last night. Juniors brag about getting their license and seniors complain about being stuck in high school and not away at college where they should be.

And then there's me. Somewhere in the mist of it all, I fit into the complicated collage that represents the world of high school. I'm not quite sure where I'm supposed to "fit". Usually I'd be off with Alli Bhandari and Dave Turner, comparing our classes and cheering every time we found one that we had in common.

But things are different now. I can't just walk up to Alli or Dave, or anyone for that matter, and talk to them like I did every day of my regular life. Because my life isn't regular anymore. I'm not regular anymore.

I crush through the hallway until I finally reach homeroom. The classroom, when I open the door and walk in, is generally deserted. Most people are still reuniting with old friends, and the only people who are here are the ones who have nobody to reunite with. The people like me.

I scurry over to my seat as Mrs. Laner anxiously shuffles through a huge pile of papers, not even acknowledging my presence. The sound of squealing and chattering is evident even with the door completely shut. I watch silently as students pass by the door, laughing and talking with smiles glued to their faces.

I sigh, tapping the desk as a distraction from the painful realization. This is the classroom she used to have. The classroom where she got asked out on her first date, the classroom where her and her friends had random dance competitions, the classroom where she got detention for back talking the teacher.

I bet they put me here on purpose.

The bell signaling homeroom goes off and everyone hurries into class. Soon each seat is filled, and the once quiet sanctuary is now an animal zoo. People are standing in the middle of the room and throwing things at each other. Girls try to fix up their make-up while the guys kick at one another from under the desks. All the noise makes my head spin and I cross my arms against the desk, placing my head in between them. Everything goes dark, and the sounds are slightly muffled, although I can still feel vibrations shaking my entire body.

Mrs. Laner is calling out student's names to hand them their schedules. I have a few moments to linger and relax; she's only on C. Katy Carsie walks towards the front of the room and some guy smacks, what I'm guessing, is her ass. She giggles and stops moving just long enough to give him a flirty shove back. Even surrounded by darkness, I can't help but roll my eyes at people's stupidity.

"Clare Edwards."

I jolt up at the familiar sound of my name. Most people are too involved in their own activities to recognize me, but a few students stop and pause to throw me a fascinated glance.

I snag the small piece of paper away from Mrs. Laner the moment I reach her. Just when I'm about to turn around, she grabs my arm gently and looks me straight in the eye.

I've seen that look on her face a thousand times. Sympathy, pity, sorrow.

God, I want to punch her.

"Clare," she glances over at the other students, then back at me, "I just want to say how truly sorry I am for your loss. It's so awful."

The need to slap her hand away is almost overwhelming. My blood begins boiling.

"Thank you," I croak out, and step back just so she's forced to let go of me.

"If you need to talk," she goes on, as if she knows how much this conversation is torturing me, "Tell me and I will automatically let you go down to the guidance counselor's office, okay?"

"Thanks," my voice has gone bitter, "But I don't really think talking will change that much."

Mrs. Laner looks away uncomfortably before regaining her posture. Her face is nervous, uneasy, and I can tell that she's not quite sure how to respond. "It just might," she speaks slowly, as though we're speaking two different languages and I can't decipher the words, let alone the meaning, of what she's trying to say, "Talking can do a lot, you know."

Her words make me chuckle. Once again, another person has joined the parade of people who claim that talking can save the world.

Does talking fix anything?

Does talking change the fact that my sister is dead?

For a moment I think about spitting the words at her, watching as her face shifts between a million expressions of embarrassment and guilt. It's not worth it, I decide eventually. She'll just go into more detail, telling me how letting the pain out, setting it free, will give me a sense of autonomy I've never contained before.

"Whatever," I mumble after a few seconds.

I sit back down at my desk and open the envelope. My classes are listed neatly among the paper, set straight down in a vertical line. Honors English, Spanish III, Algebra II.

Creative Writing. The class I literally cried over. The class that I swore if I got into, I'd jump up from the desk and scream with all my might. Last year I probably would have, too, then settled back down in my seat and blush like an idiot, still not able to resist smiling in pure joy.

Now I can't even be excited. The words look like nothing but ink on a piece of paper, setting me up for the next nine and a half months of my life. I fold the envelope up and place it down.

Looking up at the clock, I sigh in utter frustration. Each passing minute feels like an hour.

I refuse to pay attention to anything other than that damn clock. Not the group of girls cracking up in a circle behind me, or the two guys who go up and start teasing them, or the random boy wearing all black, coloring his nails with sharpie. I just focus on the clock and think of nothing else.

Mrs. Laner stands up. "Go," she smiles, "Have a good first day. Don't get lost."

Everyone crumples up by the door at once. I feel someone's body mass pressing against my side, but I don't even bother to turn and see who it is. Eventually I'm set free from the crowd and bolt towards my new locker.

Opening the locker door, I shove what little amount of material I have inside of it.

"Hey."

Looking up would be a waste of time. I already know who it is.

"How are you doing?" Alli puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. I pull back and pretend like I'm attentive on organizing everything in my locker.

Alli groans and slams the door shut.

Glaring, I try to repeat the combination again, but I can't remember the numbers anymore.

Alli crosses her arms against her chest and taps a high heel against the floor, watching me intently. "Are you going to talk or what?"

I finally gain up enough courage to look at her. She's wearing the typical Alli outfit, with the typical Alli hair-do, and the typical Alli make-up. Everything about her is the same.

Why was I expecting something to be different, anyway?

"Don't really feel like talking." I give up on trying to open my locker and just gaze down at my hand, which is still clutching the lock itself.

A silence follows us then, and I can feel her willing up something to say, something that will change the painful barrier between us. "Okay, let's not talk then," she pulls at my arm, "Let's just walk to class. What's your first period?"

I rip away from her touch and rub my arm as if it hurts. Alli watched my motions, her eyes twisting into a mixture of hurt and confusion. Part of me wants to lurch forward at her, ease the hardening pain smothering over her make-up. I tell myself no, it's better this way. Sometimes the right thing just has to hurt.

"Are you sure?" Her voice squeaks with a deep emotion, and the creases on her forehead become visible.

"I'm fine," I almost scream, "Just leave me alone, okay?"

I flinch. Somewhere in the back of my mind, those words are echoing in a train of rhythmic patterns, only being sung with a different voice than my own.

I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. I've heard that one phrase a thousand times, in a thousand different places, for as a thousand different excuses. And it sounds weird coming from me, like the words were originally created to be said through Darcy's lips. I feel like a thief, stealing her thunder, and instantly want to take it all back.

Alli bites her lip. "Okay," she says quietly, "Whatever you want."

She looks up to face my eyes one more time. "I was just trying to be a good friend, okay? You seem like you need one."

"I don't need anyone," I hiss, and slam my palm against the locker for proof.

Alli spins on her heels and walks away, melting into the crowd of people busying their way through life. An everlasting ache develops in the pit of my stomach as I watch her fade out of sight, and I try with all my strength to push it down. But it won't go away. So I turn around with the same amount of determination and head for first period, wherever that may be.

I still feel people's eyes lingering on me during the entire walk to class. Those whispering voices that are meant to stay shared between a small group of friends seem to explode into the mind of ever person who passes by. I scrunch down lower and refuse to look at any of them. How can I deal with this for a whole year?

But that's not even the worst part. No, not even close. The worst part is the fact that while everyone knows exactly who I am, eighty percent of them don't even know my name.

I'm not Clare Edwards anymore.

I'm nothing.

Just The Girl Who's Sister Killed Herself

**Like it? Hate it? Better than my old story (writing wise, I mean) Let me know in your reviews. They are my drug, afterall =)**

**Update goal for next chapter: By next Friday**

**-Jenna =)**


	2. SO SO SO SORRY!

**Okay, I am so so so so incredibly sorry for this. I hate when people write chapters only for an author's note (while the story is still in progress), but I feel like I owe you all an explanation.**

**So I had my second chapter almost done. About 3,000 words, five pages, editted and everything. But then I decided to reread over my chapter one more time, and when I did, I realized something important.**

**It SUCKED.**

**Like, just beyond terrible. Not only was my writing random sentences thrown together, but the plot, the scenes, the characters, were head down to Nowhere Ville. So I did the only thing I could think of. I deleted it. My entire chapter is completely and utterly gone. So now I have to start from scratch again, but I'm having some personal issues and one of the biggest writing/inspiration block you could ever even imagine. All in all, I have no idea when the next chapter will be posted, if it will be posted at all. I am beginning to think of just ending this story and taking a break from writing. Like I said, I'm having some personal issues going on right now and I never have a clear mind. Of course, not writing won't make me feel any better, considering 99.9% of my stress is from the horrible world known as school, but it will give me more time to enjoy having any time at all.**

**I am so sorry. You have all been so great me, and this is all I'm capable of giving in return. I thought about doing a filler chapter, until I realized I am completely against those. In my opinon, ever word, comma, quote, character, in a story shoud have a purpse. I would never post a chapter just for the sake of not making you guys wait. Because would you really want a stupid chapter with no real plot or purpose?**

**Still, that doesn't mean I don't feel like crap for doing this. And I am well aware some people got all excited because they thought I actually posted for once only to find this stupid bold writing in my story's place. So don't think I'm updating with no weight on my back, because I am really am. More than you can imagine.**

**As of now, this story is toast. But if I happen to get hit with a wave of inspiration-and who knows, maybe writing just as me will do that- I will write it down, whereve I am, and post as soon as possible. I love all of you guys so much, and I can't apologize enough.**

**-Jenna**


	3. Chapter 2

**I'm back! Yes, I did get hit with a sudden sense of motivation andd decided to push myself great lengths. And it paid off, because I actually have my chapter finished. I am, once again, sorry sorry sorry for making you wait so long for a chapter. ****Well, just waiting to see if there was a chapter at all. But there is, so I'm happy, and hopefully you all don't hate my guts and decide to boycott against my stories, because I love your reviews =)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi. Never did, and probably never will. **

These people, the ones who look away and dodge my ever presence, are the same people who used be a natural substance in the recipe that created my everyday life. Jenna Middleton used to teach me how to play guitar in the music room during study hall. She would make fun of my lack of skills, redoing my finger positioning on the strings over and over again, even though I never could get it right. Dave Turner always flirted with Alli and I, although I could never quite ignore the way his dallying turned into something more while talking to her, the way something in his eyes lit up when she would enter the room. Peter Stone would wave a friendly hello to me in the hallways every once in the while, and we would make a slight amount of eye contact that distinguished into a soft smile.

I don't recognize any of these people anymore. I wonder if they recognize me. Or if they remember who I used to be, rather than what I am now.

I sit down in Creative Writing class and begin doodling random squiggly lines inside my writing notebook. Half of the notebook is already used up, due to my demanding need to jot down any inner most thoughts during the summer, when my biggest complaints were that the sun was too strong, the pool was too cold, and my skin was too pale.

Eighty percent of what I wrote down isn't even important. Mostly random story ideas that popped into my mind at thrashing moments, those kinds that stick in your head like glue until you finally peel them off onto a piece of paper. None of the pages link together, either: they're just random drabbles of words and thoughts that are left sifting off during mid sentence.

Under the power of raw curiosity, I find myself flipping through the pages and studying the things that used to overwhelm me so much. What was so important about them anyway? They have no relevance to my actual life. Each one is a different girl, living in a different world that I built up so high then let crumble down.

Around the room, I hear the slight murmurs of other students, although no one is being obnoxiously loud or disruptive. Being in creative writing class means that you're not a total douche bag. I mean, of course there's the occasional jock that just happens to contain a hidden talent, but hides the dying need to express his emotions through words by acting like a complete idiot. But other than that, most of the people here have their heads screwed on straight. For once I actually feel like I'm able to breathe without inhaling the contaminated air of idiocy.

Mrs. Dawes, who is also my Honors English teacher, strolls into the classroom while cleaning her glasses. "Sorry I'm late," she turns to face us and puts her glasses back on, "Meeting ran late."

She strides over towards the window and slightly opens it. Automatically, the slight post-summer breeze enters the classroom and envelope every person in it. I can't help but lean back against the seat and close my eyes, relishing to the feeling that reminds me of a past when things were different. Darcy's face enters my mind, how she used to always open her bedroom window and yell out to Todd, our next-door neighbor, whom she had a crush on. The careful breeze suddenly transforms into a destructive tornado.

My eyes snap open. No one else seems to be phased by the sudden change of atmosphere.

""Having a window open always helps clear my mind. Maybe you'll find something that clears your minds, as well."

Mrs. Dawes wipes her hands together and leans against her desk, which is so neat and organized you'd think it was never even used before. Everyone stops speaking and looks up at her.

"Who here is just taking this class for an easy A?"

The entire class, except me, wanders their eyes to each and every person, waiting for one unlucky victim to be chosen. No one raises their hand or speaks up, so everyone loses interest and looks back at the teacher.

"If you are," Mrs. Dawes goes on, "I would suggest you transfer out now. This class is not easy. Now," she spins on her heels and begins shuffling through piles of papers on her desk, which are tied together by different colored rubber bands, "This class will contain all types of creative writing. I know you're not all good at poetry and writing short stories, so therefore I would like to be notified of your strongest point. That way, if you hand in a poetry assignment that isn't so great, I can look at this sheet and realize poetry isn't your calling."

She unravels the rubber band and passes a few papers to the students in the front row. Since I'm in the far back, I'm the last one to get handed a sheet.

WHAT'S YOUR CALLING?

-Fiction (short stories, novels, etc.)

-Screen Writing

-Drama

-Journaling

-Poetry

Please check off 1 or more of your most valuable talents. If yours is not on here, please talk to me after class.

By the time I read through the paper five times, most of the class has already handed theirs in to the teacher. But I don't do anything. I used to write everything- short stories, attempted novels, the occasional poetry- but none of them ever seemed to really stick. I got bored with same repetitive motions of my character's lives, or the cyclical rhyming of poetry that contained no real meaning. None of it meant- none of it means- anything.

Whatever. I check off what seems slightly appealing at the moment and hand the sheet to Mrs. Dawes. She scans over my choices for a few moments, and I sweat there's a suspecting look swimming in her eyes as she does so.

"Thank you, Clare," she says, and puts it down with the rest of the papers.

I walk through the aisle and somehow manage to catch my foot on someone's backpack. Before I have time to register what's happening, let alone save myself, I'm on the floor with my head pressed up against somebody's boot.

People's eyes, once again, smolder through my skin. I blush until my face is the color of a cherry and stand up cautiously, afraid that another force is waiting for the right moment to push me back down.

A few people chuckle. I want to hit them.

"Clare, are you alright?"

Mrs. Dawe's voice is worried, as though she actually wants to know if I'm alright. I turn to face her, anything to get away from those blistering eyes, and fix my hair. "I'm okay."

"You're knee looks a little swollen. Why don't you go to the nurse and get some ice, okay?"

I nod my head, happy to escape the wrath of this prison disguised as a classroom. Mrs. Dawes hands me a pass on my way out.

As I'm walking out the door, I hear a quiet, feminine, voice whisper, "Is that her? Darcy Edward's sister?"

I stop in my tracks. The air in the room grows cold, slithering along the fabrics of my clothes like the ghost of a reminder that was forced down into its grave with all might and force. For a moment I contemplate turning around, facing that person square in the face and demand them to say it again, just for the sake of knowing it was actually real. The temptation fades away, however, when it becomes overshadowed by the hardening rock in my chest.

The voice sticks with me the whole walk to the nurse's office. There's an evident churning growing in my gut with each and every footstep, and I clutch onto my stomach for dear life.

When I open the door, Nurse What's Her Name is busy talking, or rather, arguing, with another student, whose face is bursting with fury. I vaguely recognize him. He wasn't in school much last year, left about mid-December, and usually kept quiet whenever he did attend.

"Please," he begs, clasping his hands together desperately, "I really do have a migraine."

The nurse sighs and puts the thermometer down. "Adam, you have no fever, and you look completely healthy. I'm sorry, but you just have to stick it out today."

"But I can't!" He practically yells, and the agony in his voice makes me flinch, "Do you want me to pass out?"

"Adam-"

"I'm sick, okay!" He jumps down from the bed and waggles a shaking finger in his own face, "Does this look like a healthy face to you?"

The nurse groans and puts a hand on Adam's forehead, deciphering his temperature for a moment before pulling away. "You feel fine," she says tiredly, "I can't allow a student to go home unless they actually are ill."

"Is that all that matters to you people? A fever?" Adam laughs like the matter is anything but funny, "You can be sick without actually having a fever, you know."

"Yes, I am well aware-"

"Then let me go home!"

The Nurse shakes her head and closes her eyes tiredly. "Why don't you lie down for a few minutes, calm down, and then go back go class?"

"You know what, just forget. But when I puke my guts out, just remember it's all your fault." Adam steps back from her and throws a backpack over his shoulder.

He runs towards the door and almost knocks me down when his shoulder clashes with mine. I stumble back and grasp the wall to keep from falling again.

The door slams shut, and I suddenly feel claustrophobic with the aftermath air of an argument.

The Nurse finally notices me. "What do you need, dear?" She says uncomfortably, trying to push away what just happened.

I look back and forth between her and the door, not able to recall my reason for coming. "I- uh, I-"

"You need a band-aid?" She motions her head towards my knee, which is now a pale shade of white.

I nod. "Yeah."

She swipes a large band-aid, the kind that is circular and not oval, from the medicine cabinet and hands it to me. I take it and sit down on a cold chair by the window, removing the wrapper.

Adam. I really should know who he is. His name came up in conversation before. His name alone had been a conversation. I fiddle with the band-aid, fixing the parts that folded into the sticky side, and replay the movements of his face over and over again.

Adam Terry?

No.

Adam Tommy?

That's not it either.

I prop my elbow onto my injured knee once the band-aid is successfully on and stare off into space. God damn it. Who is he?

Forget it. I stand up and thank the nurse, who waves her hand dismissively, and walk out of the office. But even though I told myself I wouldn't think about it, the image of his face keeps nagging in my mind.

My frustration transforms into apprehension when my hand comes in contact with the classroom door. The churnings have expanded from my stomach to my head to my throat. Everything begins moving fast.

Nothing even happens on the first day. Teachers list their endless trains of expectations, most of which no one reaches anyway. Kids ignore the teachers and talk about their summers, as if the whole world channeled in to hear about how they had sex in a pool and got a really bad tan line, and even though the curriculum is supposed to be stated, every teacher always gets caught up in one subject they're passionate about and go on for the entire period.

That's enough to convince me. I spin on my heels and begin coursing through the empty hallway, trying to ignore the fact that I have absolutely nowhere to go. A colorful poster is planted above a group of lockers, the top left corner sifting in mid-air, as though it were trying desperately to convince the rest of itself to let go as well. When I turn my head to get a better glimpse of it, I realize that it's a motivational poster for the senior class to apply to colleges A.S.A.P.

I feel a pain in my gut. She'll never go to college.

Darcy wasn't what you would call an overachiever. But she wasn't an underachiever as well. She kind of fell somewhere in the middle, tottering from side to side, changing her views on school by the amount of homework she received. Not that it really mattered, anyway, whether or not she wanted to take twenty minutes on an essay or five hours. She somehow always managed to ace every test, blow teachers away with her awesome vocabulary and sentence structure, and get report cards my parents insisted on posting on the refrigerator door. It always bugged me, how things came so easy for her. I was the one who ripped my own hair out studying for an easy Lab Biology quiz, the one who spent hours on homework that only consisted of three questions, the one who loitered on breaking point territory, just to find, that once again, I could never quite reach the astounding grades my sister always got. And even though everything was so damn easy for her, she chose to end it?

I rub my bandaged knee absentmindedly. I'll never, ever, understand the mystery of Darcy Edwards.

I'll never, ever, want to.

The front doors to Degrassi are locked from the inside during school hours. The only way you can open them is with the secretary's consent, and to do that you need an excuse to leave school, which always consists of either your parent coming in or an approved note. This total lockdown act just started this year, due to numerous cases of students playing hooky and leaving school during their least favorite subject. I'm not sure who started it all, who exactly sent Principal Simpson over the edge, but my guess is whoever it was got caught in the act.

After a few moments of standing in the middle of the hallway, I slide down against the lockers and look down at the tile floor. My eyes feel tired all of a sudden; I struggle just to keep them open. All I want to do is go back home and sleep.

Change that. All I want to do is sleep. I'll never want to go back home again.

I pull down my shirt just enough that I can look down at my shoulder. As usual, my birthmark is staring back at me, bold and brown, never moving or washing away. Darcy and I had the exact same mark. Full and dark on the inside, gradually becoming tarnished with each millimeter edging towards the outside, until all it becomes is a speckle of light colored dots tattooed onto our skin.

I trace the pattern of the birthmark, making sure to touch every possible aspect of it, wondering that if by doing so I'm actually touching a piece of Darcy. I wait for a jolt in the exterior of my heart; an electrical shock that sends a wave of chills dancing down my spin. But I soon realize, with an emotion I can't decipher as relief or disappointment, that all I feel is hollow.

Darcy used to tell me that our identical birthmarks were a memento that we were sisters. She would always say that even though we looked nothing alike, and even though at times we hated each other, that those two birthmarks would always remind us that we were linked together. At the time her words made me laugh. I told her she sounded like Oprah. But now, when I look at the birthmark resting on my pale white shoulder, it hits me harder than a brick wall that it's no longer a twin.

"Excuse me!" I jump at the sound of Mr. Simpson's voice, and quickly stand up. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

He walks down the hallway, eyes raging with annoyance, but once he sees my face all the anger drains away..

I refuse to meet his eyes. I can't stand to witness the growing expression of sympathy.

"Oh," he says shortly, "Clare. What are you doing here?"

I step back shakily. "I'm sorry, I'll go back to class."

Just when I turn around and start heading back to Creative Writing, Mr. Simpson stops me. "Are you alright, Clare? I mean, how are you doing?"

"I'm fine. Just fine."

I don't bother to look at him when I say the words. I know that if I do, he'll see my eyes and know just how much I'm lying. Not even the best liar in the world could stretch this far from the truth and get away with it.

**So this took me a while to write. Lots of deleting, lots editting, and lots of cursing at the computer. Hopefully this satisfied you all =)**

**-Jenna**


	4. Chapter 3

**Okay, I am supposed to be asleep right now, so this is going to be short. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi. Seriously, I don't.**

**Okay, well I thought I wasn't going to have this chapter posted by Thursday, but then I got hit with this wave of inspiration so I just wrote and wrote and wrote and deleted and deleted and deleted and worked and worked and worked.**

**P.S.- Who saw the new promo? Fitz is back? Awww snap**

Hey, Clare, wait up!"

Alli catches up with me before I even have a chance to turn around. She's smiling like nothing is wrong. Apparently she's over what I said to her before. Too bad I'm not.

"Do you want to eat lunch with me?" She waggles a brown plastic bag in front of my face, laughing. "My mom made raspberry bar cookies! I know you love them, and she always bakes enough for me that I'll end up gaining a hundred pounds if I eat them myself."

Somewhere beneath the happy and cheerful façade of her voice, I'm able to catch a glimpse of another emotion, one that's being beaten down so hard it's barely even recognizable anymore. I don't know quite what it is, but in the little amount I'm able to contain I guess it's some form of desperation. Like she's trying to pretend that life is all sunshine and rainbows in hope that I'll start to believe it too.

"No thanks," I can barely hear my own voice; the hallways are flooded with waves of students, one after another, a never-ending force of destruction. "I think I'll pass."

"Please, Clare!" She clutches her hands together as though she's praying to God, her eyes begging in sync with her voice. "I really don't want to sit with Dave and Connor and Wesley. Being the only girl sucks."

"What about Jenna?" I kick at a random pencil lying helplessly on the floor.

Alli smiles deviously, an instant signal of gossip. "You didn't hear, did you?"

Instinctively, I find myself being pulled into the engrossing wrath of juicy knowledge, and for a moment I feel a sense of the past floating up to touch the inner layer of my skin. But it fades away before I have a chance to know if it ever even existed at all.

"Clare," Alli looks around to make sure no one's listening, even though everyone probably knows about something big enough to cause such a glint in her eyes.

"She's pregnant."

My jaw drops.

Pregnant? Jenna Middle pregnant? The same Jenna who used to play her original songs in the cafeteria and fantasize about being a star one day and drooled over Taylor Lautner with me? The person who always seemed so innocent and naïve? The girl how always had everything going for her? How can things change so fast? How can people change so fast? It seems almost impossible that something this huge and life changing could have slipped right through me, but then I remember I hadn't paid much attention to things over the summer.

"K.C. Gunthrie's the father. You know, the guy who can't choose between basketball and football. I heard he left her when he found out, but apparently they're back together. It's kind of cute if you think about it," Alli puts the tip of her thumbnail into her mouth and twists it, "They could be a happy family. I mean, it will take a whole bunch of failures and obstacles, but that's what life's all about, right? Learning that everything is worth it?"

I hear her saying the words, but can't find enough energy to actually digest them. I'm still in shock that Jenna Middleton is pregnant. What did she feel like when she found out? Did her whole life shake as though she was in the middle of a nine point five ranked earthquake? Did the ground beneath her feet shatter and everything left inside of her begin to collapse?

Is getting pregnant at fifteen enough to make her want to die?

"I want to help her so bad," Alli goes on, "So many people are calling her a slut and a whore and all that crap, but the truth is she only had sex with one person. Her and K.C. were in a healthy relationship, and had been for a while. It's not like she gave it away to just anyone. God, people just piss me off so much. How would you feel if everyone just started judging and staring you?"

An awkward silence respires between us. Alli looks away from me and closes her eyes, somehow managing to walk blinded without crashing.

"Clare," she whispers, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I say, even though it isn't.

She shakes her head and releases a heavy breath. "I honestly didn't mean it like that. I just got so caught up with finally talking to you that I didn't watch what I was saying."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not angry."

"So is that a yes?"

I glance at her, confused. "Yes to what?"

"Eating lunch with me. Will you? Come on, there's so much stuff going on in this school you would never even think about."

My eyes slam shut on their own account. I don't want to know about what's going on in this school. I don't care. When I take a moment to open my eyes and look over at Alli, her glossy black hair is covering her face, and I wonder what it is that's going through her mind right now.

"No, sorry, I don't think I can."

Alli sighs, a mixture of frustration and hopelessness, and puts her hand on my arm to drag me over towards a row of abandoned lockers. "Come on," she whispers, and I struggle to catch her words through all the noise, "Just sit with me. You don't even have to talk. Just come."

"I can't, Alli."

"Please, Clare," This time when she says the words there is no cheerfulness or joy in them. "I don't want to lose my best friend."

"You're not," Saying the lie is like eating sour candy: a starving need to spit it out but knowing I'm not brave if I do.

"Yes, I am. You don't need to say anything. Just sulk and give me dirty looks and let me know how much you'd rather be somewhere else. At least sit with me, if only for five minutes."

"Come on, Clare."

I give her, what I hope to be, a cold look. "No."

She's still watching me when I walk away. Throughout the few hours I've been back at Degrassi, I've become an expert at knowing if someone is looking at me or not when I can't see them.

Even when I'm fully down the hallway and standing at the library door, I swear she's still looking.

Truth is, I am hungry. But students get in trouble for eating anywhere but in the cafeteria, and burnt pizza and sour milk isn't worth the torture of all those eyes and a nagging Alli. For the second time this day, I walk through the hallways on my own, but this time I actually have a destination.

J.T. York died only a few years ago. I've never met him before, never even knew who he was, until Darcy came home one day in utter shock that a former student had been killed the night before. And suddenly it was as though his ever presence burst into energy. His picture popped up every time I turned on the news, a new face telling the same story, how a seventeen-year-old boy had been stabbed in the back at a birthday party for his ex-girlfriend. "It was an accident no one saw coming", they would always say. "There was a rivalry between the two young men, but nothing serious enough to have caused such a disaster." You couldn't go to the grocery store without hearing the quiet whispers of his name, followed by a line of "such a terrible, terrible, tragedy." And every now and then, when I would visit the high school so my mom could pick up Darcy from Power Squad practice, I would see a teenager walking through the front doors, wiping their eyes, sobbing. In a small town, death is never easy. But when it comes to someone so young and promising, it hits us in a way we never thought was possible. Our worlds become flipped upside down. Is your child safe? Who really are the kids at their schools? How can the lead-up to these events become more visible? Or more importantly, how can they be dodged? All of these questions lurked around the town like mice in someone's attic, none of them ever actually answered.

The school created a memorial on his behalf. Three benches surrounded by glass walls with a door on each side. There's a plaque with his name carved into it, a picture of a handsome boy with a smiling face perched on top of it, sealed with a graduation cap. I wonder, for a moment, if they'll make a memorial for Darcy. Or maybe they only make them for people who have been stabbed, like J.T., not someone who decided to kick the bucket themselves.

I sit down on one of the benches and pull out a copy of Nineteen Minutes. It's my fourth time reading it, and I can recite practically every phrase of all 455 pages. Yet somehow the story of a school shooting brought on by a million different perspectives never seems to get old.

It takes me a moment to realize that someone else is sitting at the memorial, too. I glance up, trying to be subtle, and find myself face to face with a boy wearing all black. He's leaning against the glass wall with his legs perched up underneath him, an apple in his hand. He doesn't notice me at first, but eventually he does, and a smirk brushes its way across his face.

I drop my head into my book, so far down that the words go blurry, and act as though I'm not distracted by the person sitting across from me.

It's silent for a while. Eventually I'm able to go back to reading, but every once in a while I unconsciously look up at the guy, who is now shuffling through his ipod tranquilly. In the deafening stillness his music is audible. Muffled, but audible. And every now and then I would be hit with a screaming guitar and bashing drums, cooling down to its regular volume in a matter of seconds.

"Have you ever heard of The Dead Hands?"

He speaks so suddenly I question if I'm going insane. But I realize, when one of his earplugs is hanging loosely out of his ear and his eyes are focused on my face, that he had spoken.

"No," I say quietly, scratching at the back of my head and trying to fix a piece of hair I know is standing up, "I haven't heard of them."

He nods his head, as though he was expecting such an answer. He begins twirling the loose plug around his forefinger. "They're really good," he smiles, "I bet you'd like them a lot."

"Okay…" I go back to reading my book and he goes back to listening to my ipod.

"_In the end, you're more of a liar than I could be, but I guess that's my fault, for letting you get the best of me_."

He sings the words so nonchalantly and carelessly and calmly that I can't help but close my eyes sway my head back and forth at the lyrics. It's hard to tell what kind of music this actually is, considering all I have is some guy singing them to himself with no music, but from what I hear it seems to be the kind of song that fits with the tone of his voice. Raw. Maybe with a slight country edge to it.

He stops singing suddenly, and when I look at him he's wearing this proud grin. "See," he chuckles, "I told you you'd like their music."

He stands up and walks away. I wonder for a moment if this were the whole purpose of him coming in here. Just to gain a new fan of a band he happens to like. Or maybe in the hope or scoring one with a girl. I flinch at the latter, realizing how bad of an appearance I made of myself. Not that I cared, or anything. It's just no one wants to feel like they made someone think they're stupid or something.

The bell goes off like sirens in the middle of the night. Somehow I managed to lose track of time, during the time I was reading or listening to that guy sing or even after he left. I crack both my knees before standing up, which always makes me feel refreshed, and swing myself through the door and into the flooded hallway once again. Fortunately, I got assigned the second to last lunch period, which means I only have one class left until school is over.

Peter Stone is walking with a group of guys whom I recognize only from their band, Studz, which would play at every school dance and major event. They are all laughing at something Sav Bhandari said, clapping their hands together, giving each other play punches in the shoulder. Peter is going along for the ride, seeming to follow every footstep they take, smiling, laughing, goofing off. But somewhere in his actions I catch a glimpse of the Peter I witnessed at the funeral. The Peter who refused to speak, who refused to cry or show any emotion other than pure numbness. I think back to his eyes that day, which were so dead and emotionless I couldn't look at them without drowning in my own tears, and wish that he would have broken down and cried hysterically until his cheeks were flushed red and his lips were dry. At least then I won't have to guess what he's thinking, whether or not he's truly over it or still being dragged back into the past. I wish I have the guts to go up and speak to him. But that would be awkward anyway. We never really did have a friendship. We were friendly enough to each other, acknowledging each other's presence and getting along, but it was always borderline acquaintances. I know that if it weren't for Darcy I would have never even spoken to him at all.

I watch him until he's fully down the hallway, being painted over by all the other students passing by.

He might have looked back at me, but I honestly can't be sure**.**

**You guys know the drill. Review. Don't review. It's all good. And for the next chapter, I'll probably be introducing Clare's home life. That's a very shaky thing to write about, so it may take a little while. Wish me luck!**

-JENNA


	5. Chapter 5

**You guys can kill me later. Just do me a favor and read the chapter first...then possibly review.**

**Real quick: Who saw "Friday" by Rebecca Black? This world is getting shallower and shallower everyday. **

**Disclaimer: Yo no tengo Degrassi. **

I always wonder why it is that slow changes seem to move so fast. Because maybe, like a roller-coaster plummeting to the ground from a hundred feet up, the speed never stays the same. Maybe things start to fall gradually, so carefully and secretively that no one even knows it's happening, and by the time we do notice, it's at full speed, rushing away and whipping our hair behind our head, grabbing a hold of our breaths and refusing to let go. I wonder whether or not the change that took place within Darcy was the same way; a long, deadly road down down down.

Darcy always seemed to be happier than me. She was the one who would go out at night to scare herself sick with Texas Chain Massacre, or eat so much candy that she would collapse on the couch, head on her best friend's shoulder, or dance around the kitchen to Build Me Up Buttercup while making cookies until my mom told her she would disturb the neighbors. That's the way I want to remember her. That's the way I should remember her. But I can't find the will to. Every time I picture her face or whisper her name, all I'm capable of thinking about is the closed door to her bedroom, and the silence behind it, just quiet enough to block out the rest of the world.

Getting home is tricky. Everyone knows that entering your house after school is done in a traditional fashion, containing the same question: "How was your day?" answered with the same, "Fine," and continued with the opening and closing of kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator door, two teenage girls desperate for food.

"When I get a car," Darcy would say, throwing away a bag of chips with only crumbs left inside, "I'm going to Path Mark and buying all the food in the world."

"Good luck paying for it," I said, "Even the wonderful job at Harley's doesn't gives you enough for that."

Darcy groaned, thrusting back a piece of loose hair with frustrated fingers. "Don't remind me. I have to work tonight. And it's just going to be me and Laurie. I hate her."

Harley's was an old run-down ice-cream shop about fifteen minutes away from home. They're practically famous for their ice-cream cakes, which my family has been getting for each other's birthdays ever since I can remember. Darcy was pretty much signed up for the job since she was ten. The owner, Joe, an overly religious man with two kids in college, is best friends with my grandparents ever since my PopPop began going to the Mugrat next door for breakfast every morning ten years ago. It was a job that never seemed to pay enough for my sister: it was either empty like a hollow balloon with nothing to do or so crowded Darcy would come home sweating like she just ran a marathon. Darcy had wanted to quit since day one, which I didn't understand because getting free ice-cream and soda everyday doesn't seem like such a drag. But she hated that job, claiming it's too this or too that, not balanced enough for the perfect amount of work and freedom she desired, taking away her Saturday nights and Sunday mornings and Friday evenings. Honestly, I don't think there's a job on this planet that would have pleased Darcy, but she kept insisting that Harley's was the problem, not her.

Yeah, right.

What do places like Harley's, who depend on adults that flunked out of college or kids still in high school, do when one of their workers suddenly can't work anymore? Do they hire someone else, fill in that empty slot and go on as if nothing has ever changed, as if dying teenage girls happens all the time? Is there some weird ceremony in which they make a "funeralistic" ice-cream cake filled with black balloons and candles left unlit? It's these small things, the ones people choose to forget about because they act as the solute in our lives, getting dissolved into the larger solvents, that leave me struggling to understand what we're supposed to do to clean up this mess that could keep screwing itself up time and time again.

My mom is home. I can tell because I hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard in the dining room, slippers that are worn-out to the point of being more rips than actual clothing rubbing against the wooden floor. I set my backpack down next to the front door and walk towards the kitchen table. A pile of soggy newspapers stack up against each other on the placemat, a bowl of unfinished cereal left to spoil beside them. I pick up the bowl and scrape out the left over Cheerios in the garbage can, well aware that my mom should have noticed me by now.

By the time the milky bowl is in the dishwasher, I sigh in defeat and face up to look at her. My mom's hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail as usual: a few stringy locks hanging down to cover her ears. She's typing away furiously, as if the message she's saying may lose its meaning by the time she's finished.

"Hi," I say quietly.

She gasps and whacks herself in the chest. Her eyes are fixed on me now, studying, as though I'm a complete stranger. "Clare," she wraps one hand around the other, "When did you get home?"

"I just walk into the door," I lie. No purpose in making her feel worse than she already is.

"How was school?"

I shrug tiredly and lean against the counter, using my hands to play with the knob of a drawer behind my back. "It was fine."

"That's good," She looks back from the computer to me. "Do you have any homework?"

I glance at my backpack. "Just some papers I need to get signed."

"Okay, put them on the table next to Dar-"

She stops abruptly, sucking in a severing breath of air. I stop breathing, too. We both know what she was about to say. How close she was to ripping off the scab and making us both bleed.

I step back and my mom covers her mouth with her hands. She closes her eyes like keeping them open is too much pain to bear. At the moment everything is.

"Just put them on the kitchen table," she chokes out, and I do what she says, as unemotionally and arduously as a robot.

The tile floor beneath my feet feels like thin ice. With each step I take a crack is opened up. And with each other step to avoid falling comes another one. Eventually, I know, there'll be no more stabilized grounds to press my weight against. But I try my hardest to push the thought away, to pretend like everything isn't one mistake away from hitting rock bottom. Pretending is tiring, but at least it doesn't involve shredding through past wounds.

When I get upstairs and close my bedroom door, I finally feel like I can take in a deep breath. Everything is neat: clothes folded safely in my drawers, make-up and hair brushes evenly lined up along my dresser, books stacked against the shelves, straight up, of course, and all old pictures planted face down, hidden away by the dark wood of my armoire. For once there's nothing that needs fixing or tidying up.

It wasn't always like this. A year ago my shirts would have been bundled up in a broken laundry basket that my mom needed back, my powdered make up would stain the carpet flooring, my bed would be unmade, my books would be dented and ripped, my whole room would be nothing but a cluster of waste.

I can't remember when everything fell into this state of perfection. I can't even remember how. Maybe I was too busy cleaning up the mess my sister left behind to make my own.

My phone begins vibrating from my nightstand. I crawl across the bedspread to retrieve it.

_Dot at 3:30? TOTALLY bored._

It was from Alli. Written in the same nonchalant, casual way we had always communicated with each other.

I slide my phone down and chuck it at the floor. The backside of the case, the one that never fits right, splatters off and bounces on the carpet until it lands a few feet away.

Even though I hate when that happens, I'm too tired to get up and fix it. Today has felt as successful as swimming through Jell-O. Going through another year, another day, of this strenuous routine of keeping a straight face and turning away from all those withering eyes…I don't even think it's humanly possible. But I guess I have to, because it's all I have left, and facing myself with the stone hard truth would be even more painful.

Downstairs, I hear my mom pacing back and forth in the kitchen, sobbing.

Ignore it. Close the door, lock it, wear a pair of headphones, cross the boarder, grow some wings, fly away, and never come back. That's the ultimate resolution. Never come back.

But that's what Darcy did. That's exactly what she did.

I've never been suicidal, and I don't think I ever will be. But after everything that happened with Darcy, all the tears and sorrow and emptiness, I can't help but wonder what would happen if I followed in her footsteps. I wonder if my parents would cry any harder. I wonder if my school would have a separate ceremony for me. I wonder if my name would be spoken at Path-Mark or if there would be a plaque with my name on it. I wonder if I could ever be my own individual person, and not just the shadow chasing after her sister. I wonder if I'm more than that.

If I killed myself, I wonder, would people call me the Girl Who Killed Herself? Or would Darcy and I become known as the real Virgin Suicides?

Shake the thoughts away. Stuff them in a box and forget about them. Right now isn't about me. I don't know if anything will ever be about me again. The whole world seems to have stopped to gawk at the death of Darcy Edwards. The Earth has stopped spinning and the grass has stopped growing and the rain has stopped falling. Everything's in pause, waiting, waiting….waiting, and with each passing moment the waiting becomes more dreadful, more silent. Eventually, each desert island and ocean-trench will be pervaded with this cold sheet of silence, forever frozen.

Within five minutes of sitting on my bed, I'm snuggling up into the covers and hiding my face in between my pillows. My head hurts from all this thinking and I have nothing better to do. Vibrations keep forcing me awake every time Alli tries to persuade me with another text, but eventually the distracting noise turns into a lullaby. I close my eyes and picture anything but the things I see everyday, because what's the point on wasting my time with aspects I'm facing twenty four seven anyway? The blanket is cold against my skin, not helping at all, but I consider it more as an outlet to the world than something meant to keep me warm.

Something is poking my shoulder. I shrug it off and turn over so my stomach is pressed up against the mattress.

"Clare, it's time for dinner," my dad says, and shoves me just hard enough that I flip over onto my side.

I rub my eyes and yawn, "Okay, I'll be down in a minute."

Something flashes through my father's eyes, but like a shooting star in the night sky, it's too quick to decipher. "Are you alright? You look a little flushed?" His shaggy blonde hair sweeps across his face when he bends down to touch my cheek. He smells like rich leather and air-freshener, the regular office odors. I inhale just a little bit and flutter my eyes closed for a minute before opening them back up again. His hand is still touching my skin, tentatively, as if he's afraid I might break.

"How was school?"

The way my dad asks me sends off a signal that he actually wants an answer, a real answer. He has never been the kind of person to accept "fine just fine" without taking time to shovel down deeper until he hits the very core of our honesty.

But the truth is, I don't want to be dug in. I'm fine being flat, plain, and untouched.

"It was okay," I give him a smile in hopes that it will convince him I'm not lying.

"You sure it was just _okay_?"

I nod. "Yep. Just okay."

"Well…._okay,_" he pats my leg through the thick comforter and turns around to leave. "Your mom ordered Chinese. I hope you're up for some lo mein."

I don't bother answering him. Even if I confess that I'm deadly allergic to Chinese noodles, it won't make a difference. My parents have fallen into this stage where words skim through their brains like a leaf floating on water. It barely makes a ripple affect. Barely changes a thing.

It smells like Chinese food when I finally head downstairs. My mom is setting the table with such determination you'd think her life depended on it. The food is sitting in brown paper bags on the middle of the table right next to the forms from school. My mom picks them up and places them on the counter, he hands sweating, her lips trembling. There's something about the way she stands, so fragilely and brokenly, like a block of Legos getting higher and higher until they're about to tip over.

I can tell my dad notices her nervous behavior. He walks over to her side and wraps one arm around her waist, as if she'll collapse onto the floor without his support.

For a second I see my mom finally let go of whatever tough act she's trying to pull on us. Her whole body leans against his arm, mouth relaxes and hands go motionless against her sides. I just stand still and watch them, afraid that by making my presence known I might destroy this one moment of serenity.

Of course, it only lasts a second.

"Okay, take whatever you want."

My dad begins plucking out the food and placing each container on our plates. Already, the glasses are filled with our favorite drinks: iced tea for my dad, wine for my mom, and apple juice for me.

Take a deep breath. I can do this.

It takes walking over to where I normally sit to realize the chair that's supposed to be next to mine is gone.

I falter backwards. Suddenly my appetite is gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of nausea, the kind of nausea I know won't ever go away because whatever's causing it is buried too deep inside my stomach to escape.

People always say small things hurt the most. I guess they're right. Because realizing that there will never be four members of the Edwards family sitting at the kitchen table ever again is enough to clutch my lungs and twist them.

I swallow the nausea and crawl into my seat. The cushion feels as though it's full of helium and is bound to pop at any given moment. I open up the lo mein container and focus on nothing but getting the noodles onto my plate. Nobody speaks. Apparently getting food out of a container takes all the concentration in the world.

I glance over at my mom, who is shoving an egg roll with her fork and biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. My dad's about to put a spoonful of rice in his mouth, but stops, puts the utensil down, and sighs.

"Helen," his hand lands on my mother's arm, and her shoulders tense at the contact, "Are you alright? You look so tired."

My mom pulls away and eats a piece of shrimp, although she looks tempted to spit it back out. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

Her fork drops to the floor, squealing like a baby against the tile before falling quiet. "Yes, I am. Work has just been hard. Larry screwed up again, and as usual, he calls me, the Superwoman, to go and fix his mistake."

"If it's his mistake, you can just tell him to go and fix it."

My mom squeezes the rims of her eyes together, angry at my dad's attempt to make things better.

"I really can't. It's partly my fault, Randall."

"How is it your fault?"

"Because, I looked over his work. It was my job to check and make sure there were no mistakes. And you know what? I didn't see it. I didn't see any. But now we're stuck and have to start all over because I couldn't see what was right there in front of me."

I'm not quite sure if my mom meant for the metaphor to slip through her words, but they did. Loud and clear.

"No one saw it," my dad's head dips down low until it's pushing against his chin. There's this distressed expression on his face, like someone is slowly cutting a knife up his arm. "It wasn't just you."

"Still, it was my job."

"Helen-"

"I really don't want to talk about work right now."

His head pops back up. "I assumed we weren't talking about work."

There it is again. That same old clueless mask my mom wears whenever someone's close to scratching across her true skin. The mask that says she's too damn stupid to understand what anyone is trying to tell her, too tired to reach out when someone is about to grab her, too fed up with work and ordering Chinese food to care about anything else.

Part of me just wants to rip that mask right off her face, hard enough that it hurts and leaves scars to last a lifetime. But the other part, the bigger part, doesn't want to see what's underneath.

"What else would we be talking about?" She cocks her head to the side.

"What do you think we'd be talking about? Helen, you need to tell me what's going on. It's not healthy to just jump off the face of the planet like this and push away everyone who tries to save you."

There's nothing else I want more right now than to have a button that's able to transport me to some paradise far, far away. It doesn't even have to be paradise. Any place where I can't hear this fucking silence scraping across the wood of the table is fine.

I shove a spoonful of lo mein through my lips and chew as loudly as possible, doing everything I can to keep myself distracted.

"Talk to me, Helen. Just talk."

Just chew. Just chew. Just chew.

I pick up my glass and take a sip.

Just gulp. Just gulp. Just gulp.

Nothing seems to work, though. No matter how hard I try to place a brick wall between us, something keeps crumbling it down. That's the thing with family. You can never truly run away with from them. There's always this string of genetics that reels you back in, halts your escape, and glues your feet to floor.

"If we keep talking, your food will get cold."

My dad looks down at his untouched plate and pokes the rice.

"It's too late," he mutters, "I'll have to warm it up." He stands up and walks over towards the microwave, settling the food safely inside.

Even through the humming of my father's cold food warming itself back up, I'm able to hear my mom's whisper.

"It's always too late."

**I would love to give you all an excuse, but I urghhhh...don't have one. Well actually I kind of do. But that's a long story and would be a chapter in itself.**

**P.S. (READ THIS!)- Looking for another good fanfic? Check out "Rhythm of Love" by . It may not be Eclare, but believe me, an Eclare fanatic, it is absolutely amazing. She updates fast, her stories (every single one) is awesome, and she is one of the best writers and people ever. So go ahead and read it! You will not be disappointed.**


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